


A meaning of Yes

by MurielJones



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bottom Sam, Dubious Consent, Humiliation, M/M, Non-Consensual Lucifer/Sam Winchester, Past Rape/Non-con, Previous rape, Rape, Samifer - Freeform, Silence, Silence Kink, Top Crowley, did i say rape, non-con, previous sam/lucifer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-20
Updated: 2017-07-20
Packaged: 2018-12-04 13:13:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11555925
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MurielJones/pseuds/MurielJones
Summary: Crowley and Sam have a dom/sub relationship, the deal (or is it really a deal) is that Sam stay silent during their scenes, and Crowley has permission to humiliate Sam in every which way (most of which we don't get to see, sorry), and Sam can leave at any point...somehow.  Sam meets Crowley in hell for an evening of silence, humiliation and release, but Lucifer.  This is a story about non-consential sex, dubious consent, coerced consent, and rape, did I say rape?





	A meaning of Yes

Sam squirms a little in his tux – his real, cost a fortune, Men of Letters sprang for it tux – feet flat on the ground six inches apart from each other, leaving a man as large as Sam off balance and vulnerable, hands clasped one in the other behind his back, looking down—tries to convince himself that standing in a submissive position in a forest in the middle of the night waiting for the King of Hell to notice had been his plan all along. It had, in a manner, he just hadn’t expected to wait, Crowley had never made him wait before; he had assumed he would have Crowley’s attention – full attention – by now.

Sam had said, “Thank you” and Crowley had paused, and a look had passed between them that Sam was quite sure Crowley had drawn out in the hope that Dean would notice. The Dean/Crowley thing still irked Sam. That was two days ago, two whole fucking – or more correctly, not fucking – days ago, two days until Sam told the British Men of Letters to just back off—he and Dean needed a break. Even Dean looked a little relieved about the break. Sam didn’t ask what Dean did with his down time. Dean didn’t ask what Sam did with his.

Sam was sure he was standing under the right tree, he was damn sure, so he waited – head bowed, hands behind his back, feet set square and apart, waited, it was unlike Crowley and Sam suppressed a moment of concern; Crowley was after all the King of Hell and with Lucifer all snugged up in his cage, Sam knowing what the Men of Letters were up to, Cas awol, and Dean busy with whatever (whom ever) Dean was busy with, there really shouldn’t be much to worry about.

Sam contemplates leaving, feeling that Crowley has started in on a breach of contract here, he’s willing to argue it at this point. He doesn’t have his phone on him – part of the arrangement – so he can’t call Crowley. Sam is starting to get pissed off. The twitch of his face might say he was more than starting to get pissed off.

Then he is scrambling, trying to get his feet under him, one hand flat down, the other elbow hitting hard into the stone as he falls to the floor of Hell’s throne room. Apart from the sharp pain Sam is relieved; this was what he expected all along. He gathers himself to his feet, if Crowley had expected him to stay down he would have said as much – and Sam trusts it is Crowley who has brought him here; he keeps his head and eyes down, he returns to his stance of feet set square six inches apart from each other, hands behind his back; but he toes his shoes and socks off, then bends to fold the socks neatly into a ball and set the shoes neatly side by side to his right. He knows what to expect and he knows what to do.

“Look up Sam.” Crowley’s voice is inviting, there is none of the mockery that sometimes starts an evening.

Sam looks up, cautiously around, careful to not over-reach the invitation.

Horror holds Sam’s breath hostage, twisting his spine and tripping up the beats of his heart.

Lucifer smirks from behind Crowley.

“Relax Moose.” Crowley looks too pleased with himself but his voice isn’t sharp and Sam doesn’t feel criticized; Crowley is pleased with himself – appears pleased with himself – and he wants Sam to notice. “He’s all mine, aren’t you?” Crowley tips his head sideways and raises an arched eyebrow at Lucifer, who fails to answer, but scowls, which Crowley apparently feels is adequate.

All Sam does is look what he hopes isn’t too terribly afraid. He’s wrong, by the way, his fear is written all over his body in spite of his schooled face, but it can’t be helped. He should, he knows he should, ask Crowley what the hell – so to speak – is going on, but he doesn’t question Crowley here, he doesn’t speak, that’s the deal—sealed with so much more than a kiss. Sam thinks he could leave, trusting Crowley to honor their deal, after all Crowley is a crossroads demon. But Dean’s words climb across Sam’s skin now: ‘We work with people we don’t trust all the time.’ And is this Crowley’s game here anyhow…Sam knows he can trust Crowley, well thinks he can, maybe thought he could, but Lucifer—he’s the devil Sam knows best, and there is only fear.

Sam hopes he has disguised his fear as discomfort. 

Lucifer smirks at Sam’s discomfort. 

“Moose.” It’s overly fatherly, condescending, placating; Sam feels annoyed and stupid for feeling comforted by Crowley using his pet name – Lucifer didn’t know that he was Moose, and now Lucifer knows that also, and he didn’t want Lucifer to know that, he didn’t want Lucifer to be able to use that name – and he feels anger and loss for that; and annoyed and stupid for feeling annoyed and stupid and hurt and comforted. “He can’t touch you.” It’s not that Sam didn’t hear Crowley’s reassurances the first time, its just Crowley doesn’t know. Crowley winks, with a slight smile and a raised eyebrow, at Sam… “Unless I let him.” And Crowley smiles a chubby cheeked smile. 

Sam’s whole world goes cold; he is frozen to the spot, no longer by choice, at least he thinks not, his jaw clenches and holds too tight. Crowley is showing off for Lucifer and Sam is his Numero Uno, A-1, pick-of-the-litter display. Sam thinks he could leave, that’s the deal, he doesn’t say anything, anything at all, but he can leave at anytime, doesn’t mean he can’t come back again, just ends that scene. For the first time Sam really wonders why he trusts Crowley and his deal so much, for the first time he wonders how he would let Crowley know he wanted to leave; he doesn’t actually know if he can speak here, and he doesn’t know how he could actually leave of his own volition – you cant’ just walk out of hell even if you are allowed.

“Unless we let him.” That may have been meant to make it better, a concession to Sam’s fear, but it makes it worse.

Crowley tucks his hands contentedly into his pockets and paces around Sam, inspecting him; noticing him mesmerized by abhorrence and Lucifer, noticing him avoiding Lucifer’s eyes, noticing how deep Sam’s hell has cut into him. Lucifer runs his eyes over Sam and smirks more, better, a better smirk. Like a better mouse trap, Sam thinks, and he, Sam, is just the same old mouse. Sam ducks his head down again, and Crowley doesn’t correct him. 

“Strip?” It sounds rather like a question, but it’s not; Sam realizes his way out may be to simply not comply – no words needed – he thinks; but he’s not sure he can risk resistance yet. If he wasn’t so afraid, if he wasn’t shivering, if he jaw wasn’t locked shut from horror, if his dress shirt wasn’t wet with fear Sam might have taken the time to consider why he finds his release through adrenaline and terror; but instead he moves to slide his coat of his shoulders.

“Watch.” Crowley tells Lucifer, as if Lucifer needed to be told, and in Crowley’s voice is a hint of need that catches Sam’s ear. 

Sam opens his shoulders allowing his coat slide slowly down his back and to the floor, but Crowley catches it, turns to Lucifer, “Hold that.” Crowley says, throwing it at Lucifer’s face. Lucifer rolls his eyes but obediently reaches out his hands to catch in spite of them being cuffed together in front of him. Sam doesn’t trust those cuffs to hold anyone, let alone an archangel, for a moment; he’s seen what can happen to cuffs holding archangels. That is, however, rather far down on the list of things that Sam doesn’t trust right now.

Sam’s heavy hands unknot his bow-tie, pull his tie loose from his collar, slowly, a shaky imitation of seduction; as though anything other than his captivity, his fear and his humiliation could appeal to either Lucifer or Crowley right now – and how he had loved giving those to Crowley. Unsure of himself he tugs at the tie harder than necessary to get it free, losing his grace in front of Crowley, showing his fear in front of Lucifer. Crowley looks at Sam, catches his downcast eyes, then, with a slow turn and a nod indicates with his eyes, meaning clear: that Sam should hand the piece of cloth to Lucifer. 

Sam has to step forward, forward towards Lucifer; and Crowley just nods, and smiles that little smile of his, the one that says Sam is pleasing him—and fuck him, Sam thinks, he can do this, he’s in no place to balk now anyhow; he lurches, his feet moving for this first time since he stood up, off balance in so many ways, stumbles further forward than he intended and feels Lucifer’s touch. Lucifer’s hand is on his wrist, the one still hurting from where he fell on the floor now healed by Lucifer’s grace, Lucifer’s cupped hands one still holding his wrist tight, burning cold replacing the heat of a twist, Lucifer’s other hand moving Sam’s numb fingers one at a time off the tie, stroking Sam’s hands open, his thumb circling Sam’s palms, one and then the other; Sam’s stomach is moving inside him, lurching of it’s own volition, Sam’s genitals drawing up cold into his body, the small hairs over Sam’s skin stand, resisting the ice where it is seeping into him.

“Enough.” Its sharp, and Sam, used to obedience, freezes; but Lucifer just tilts his head in satisfaction. Crowley’s brief wide smile would usually make up for the curt injunction, but now Sam doesn’t know who it is for; or, really – and Sam wants this thought to go away – who it is from.

Crowley looks at him with raised eyebrows, and Sam knows to start in on his buttons, but he steps back, he doesn’t know if he hopes that is acceptable compliance or non-compliance and he will find out who is truly master of his little hell…whether he will be set free, or tortured, or they could keep on teasing him, they could be doing this together.

Crowley just watches. Lucifer waits. Sam starts in on his buttons. 

He should be making this somehow appealing to Crowley, appeasing him after his small lapse of obedience, but he can feel the sweat running down his neck, beads not only his face but on his back and his chest, collecting in his hairline, gluing his shirt to his body, what Crowley would usually call dirty and disgusting and human; Sam knows he smells of fear and there is nothing he can do about it, he can slow his heart and his breathing, but the scent of fear, that is in the air already. Sam realizes Crowley is waiting as he hears the tap-tap of a foot, usually this would make Sam smile secretly, he and Crowley agreeing that Sam could be a bit of a tease sometimes, but this has the sound of a count down. Sam looks at his buttons, using them as a reason to hide away from Crowley’s need and Lucifer’s desire; to look away from his own terror—he can hear Lucifer breathing, breathing, wrapped up in a human body all over again; ensconced in another consenting man like he was in Sam. All Sam has to do is stop unbuttoning his shirt and this can all be done, he can be gone. He thinks. It’s a possibility.

Sam tugs the shirt off his shoulders and holds it out to Lucifer – Lucifer is un-budging. Sam doesn’t know if Lucifer is trapped by some invisible force, held on a leash by Crowley, or if Lucifer is just leading him on, using Crowley as a play thing, drawing Sam into some sort of an inevitable – Sam’s stomach lurches. Sam looks to Crowley for help, reassurance of any sort, crossing Crowley will be nothing compared to what Lucifer will do to him again; but Crowley watching patiently shakes his head, whispering: “Do it, Sam.”

Sam takes two steps forward letting Lucifer touch; Lucifer raises up on his knees, reaches out towards Sam his cuffed hands pulled as far apart as possible, reaching as high as he can—this vessel even on it’s knees, chained and bound is a big man, and Sam feels revulsion at just the thought of the man being allowed to touch him again. He had consented, to something, he had obeyed, he had consented to something. Sam reaches an arm forward and Lucifer grabs it, pulling Sam in close, letting both his hands grab at Sam, grab Sam at the wrists with his cold cold hands, powerful hands, and then one hand and then the other up, because that’s all the cuffs will allow, up and down Sam’s forearms, one at a time, grip nearly closed around Sam’s arm, the perspiration frozen on Sam settles into his skin. Sam’s breath is gone, his throat tied shut – he drops the shirt and stumbles back; apparently that is acceptable and he wishes that it weren’t.

Sam knows what he’s expected to do – he tries to find air, mouth open as he forces his breath deeper in his chest, no longer agreeing to put on a show, barely hoping that Crowley can save him – he reaches down and fumbles with his belt like a child unsure of how it works. He doesn’t want to cut and run – can he cut and run – but it’s a thought that is sticking now: how much will Crowley let Lucifer do to him, or how much will Lucifer let Crowley control, or what if he has really lost his mind again, and with Cas in the wind he can’t escape and this is forever and there is no one to help him, and he can’t warn Dean, or his Mom, and he can’t tell Cas. His stumbling hands tug at his buckle anyhow. 

He can talk, he thinks he can at least, he’s never tried, he just agreed to silence; if he can talk he could ask Crowley for help – he feels the flush of humiliation at needing help. He had always given himself silently to Crowley, sure Crowley might tie him up, hold him down and work that King of Hell majick on him, or he might just ask Sam to lay still while he had his sometimes gentle and sometimes rough and sometimes outright harsh ways with Sam’s mind and often his body. Sam thinks thinks he could always before just have got up and left, he could have slipped those bonds, he could have slid though that majick, he could have got up and walked the halls of hell – he could have gone home, thinks there used to be a chance to have gone home. But now he doesn’t know. Fear tells him to wait and claws it’s blunt dirty fingers around his heart.

Sam’s fingers work his buckle and he wonders if he would do best to take his belt, his dress trousers and boxers all off together so he only has to be touched by Lucifer once; or if he should pull them off individually, painstakingly to delay inevitably standing naked in front of Lucifer. ‘God,’ he prays, because while it’s useless at least its private, ‘Chuck, please let Crowley be in control, please let this all be a misunderstanding, let me be insane and let Mom and Dean and Cas be safe, and let this all goes away when I die.’ Sam reminds himself he isn’t ready to die, that he needs to warn Dean, to warn his mother, to warn Cas – where ever the hell Cas got to, because he really needs Cas. Sam feels his feet leaving damp prints on the cool floor where he is standing planted, he is aware of his tight bladder and an uncomfortable over sensitive feeling down at the base of his cock, his hole almost itching, afraid of touch, his gut clenches and unclenches – he doesn’t want to soil himself.

“Sam?” Crowley’s voice nudges Sam to get on with it. Sam slides his belt clumsily though the loops while Crowley and Lucifer watch entranced. Sam bites his bottom lip – they both know he is afraid anyhow, that’s why he’s here. He fumbles with the buttons on his dress trousers, and with the clasp of his fly; and when his pants are hanging loose on his hips, Sam, still looking down, feet still six inches apart, hooks his thumbs in his black silk boxers and slides it all down; bending at the knees lifting first one foot and then the other, showing his ass off as he bends slightly he slides out of his pants. 

He stands naked in front of Crowley and Lucifer as both of them look him over –awkwardly naked, focusing on his trousers to maintain some dignity – with appreciation. No amount of awkwardness can take away from Sam’s physique; time has taken some muscle, injury has left unevenness, and hurt some scars – he’s not a boy Adonis, he’s not the boy king, he’s a man, naked and ashamed, and afraid.

“Sam,” it’s a whisper, and it’s intimate, and Sam doesn’t want intimate here, not now, but Sam has, in error, lifted his face seeking further instruction but Crowley’s eyes only indicate to Sam that he, Sam, should pass the last of his clothes to Lucifer, where Lucifer is kneeling on the steps beside Crowley’s throne leering casually at Sam. Sam wonders if he brought this on himself, if he would have been brought this close to Lucifer again if he hadn’t made a mistake, wonders if this is a punishment or if this is for amusement, or if this was always inevitable. But Sam, ever obedient, squats down, then brings himself carefully to his knees – hoping the Crowley expects his usual behavior, hoping that a second or two will make his situation clearer, create some sort of option – fastidiously folds his clothes, deliberately holds them to his chest with crossed hands, steadily brings his feet back under himself, brings himself back to standing square for a moment, and then takes three measured steps to the brilliant cold, squats down, extends his arms fully and offers his clothes to Lucifer. Lucifer keeps his hands hidden, tucked between his denim covered thighs, doesn’t reach up and out, leaving Sam crouched, and uncomfortable and unsure. Lucifer, still on his knees, rocks backwards, leaving Sam to reach further forward, leaving Sam to stand, to take a step forward, to crouch down again, never lifting his eyes to look, never quite knowing. Lucifer moves as if to stand; and Sam sees the movement, knows instinctively what it means, calms the jerk in his body; he’s too vulnerable to react and he knows it.

Crowley pulls a bitch face –let no one say he hasn’t been influenced by Sam – at Lucifer; he tilts his head a little side to side and with a snap of his fingers releases Lucifer from the wrist cuffs. A band tightens around Sam’s chest, as he hears the snick of the cuffs loosening, he can’t feel his heart beat on the white heat where the pain echoes from within his ribs and into his back. Lucifer imitates Crowley’s little head bobble, then wiggles his free fingers up at Sam, . ‘He’s still on his knees,’ Sam tries to reassure himself as the tremor from his hands leaves his small load visibly moving; Sam knows that Lucifer hasn’t crossed the line in front of the throne, he doesn’t know what it means; he knows he’s not crossing to Lucifer’s side – even if he is asked.

Lucifer shakes himself up off his knees into a crouching position, stretches his arms as though he has been shackled for all eternity, and thank god – or really Crowley – Lucifer’s ankles are still chained, he reaches his hands forward, doesn’t take the offered clothes but runs his hands over Sam’s hair where it falls over his face, tucks it behind his ears. Sam knows that Lucifer can feel the shaking through his body, the shake that has nothing to do with the cold. Lucifer runs his hands over Sam’s biceps, lazy, letting Sam remember the size of his hands, reminding Sam’s skin of his touch, Lucifer lets his hands wander back to Sam’s pecs, his fingers circling around Sam’s puckered nipples, close but not touching. Ice bites the inside of Sam’s lungs. Lucifer pauses, for show, lets Crowley watch his hands on Sam, and then reaches to take the still offered the clothes from Sam who hasn’t moved, who hasn’t moved at all. As Lucifer’s hands reach up he twines his fingers into Sam’s and Sam, Sam jerks back, just drops the clothes, frozen for a moment, a rule broken, stopping his eyes from flashing over to meet Crowley’s to find out if he is forgiven again or if he will be punished. 

Lucifer reaches forward again, and again takes Sam’s hands in his, he opens Sam’s hands, palm up and Lucifer intertwines and untangles his fingers with Sam’s, separate, together, together, separate, together and separate, together, separate.

Sam, Sam remembers, Sam remembers he can leave. He can say something, he thinks, he thinks he can say something. The bile tries to rise burning into his chest but his throat claps shut leaving his chest locked tight and bright tears burning behind his eyes. He can feel Lucifer’s breath, Lucifer just shy of his body, but Lucifer doesn’t reach forward and take him, not yet. Comply, Sam reminds himself; Sam reminds himself: comply until you can escape. He can hear his father’s voice telling him to comply. He closes himself off as best as he can from Lucifer, held in position by his own decision, inches away, unsure if he can speak or leave – the cold of Lucifer’s breath makes every hair on Sam’s body stand and Sam isn’t sure that he is really present, if really is present, if this is some kind of imprinted memory, or if it is maybe a dream, please let this not be his heaven; better it be his heaven than the world which his family has to live in. He looks up, he looks to Crowley for guidance, just a glance, he just needs help here. He needs there to be help here.

“Stand.” For a moment Sam thinks Crowley is talking to Lucifer, momentarily afraid that Lucifer will be standing over him, looking down at him again. “Sam?” Crowley sounds quizzical, it’s not like Sam to not obey instantly and Crowley, Sam thinks, is probably enjoying this, seeing what real fear does to Sam. Then he realizes what Crowley, Lucifer, Crowley, want; he is being asked to stand, and he scrambles to his feet, ungainly, struggling not to step back, not to step away and disobey again, instead leaving his crotch inches from Lucifer’s mouth. Lucifer sticks out his tongue, Lucifer licks his lips, licks the air – kitten licks and swirls. Sam wishes, Sam wishes he couldn’t get more afraid.

“Sam.” Crowley speaks softly: “Good boy.” And fuck, the relief; Sam feels the first tears of humiliation slip.

He doesn’t move though.

“Come here.” And Sam in a few strides is on his knees in front of Crowley, his hair falling forward over his lowered face, his hands clasped – as they were earlier – behind his back, he spreads his knees, lowers his ass to the floor, and lets his forehead also touch the stones of hell’s hallways, his back arched, the curve of his spine leaving him appearing as vulnerable as he is. Sam thinks ‘better the devil you know’ and now he isn’t sure he knows Crowley, and the devil he knows, knows he knows, is too horrible to contemplate, he closes his eyes, seeks out his out his own private darkness. “Look at me.” Sam opens his eyes and raises his head; Crowley smiles almost lazily, but with enough possessiveness for Sam to know this isn’t over. 

Crowley smiles at Lucifer, lets Lucifer watch, lets Lucifer know what Sam chooses, who Sam chooses.

Sam is familiar with this now, spread on the Hell’s alter, today Crowley is smoothing his body out with gentle strokes, thumbs kneading at the tension locked in Sam’s long muscles, the tips of Crowley’s fingers circling Sam’s nipples, Crowley’s meaty hands fondling Sam’s soft gentials; Sam’s hands held tightly above his head, holding fast to the stone work at the far end of the grey slab, Sam completely laid out, stretched taught across the grey-rock by his own choosing. But his body is still shaking, jaw chattering from Lucifer’s cold – would render him unable to speak now if he ever could down here – his bladder is tight and his bowl twisted, and he wonders even if all the preparation, the rarely shown tenderness, how Crowley will enter him at all; he hopes he is still clean.

Sam doesn’t close his eyes, doesn’t let himself miss anything, Lucifer had also been kind with him from time to time, and he hated that, as much as he loves it from Crowley, craves it, with Lucifer he had hated it. Sam watches trying to find any clue of who he is going to allow inside himself, going to be forced to allow…Sam lets go of it, he needs to let that thought rest. Crowley – Crowley’s meatsuit – Crowley, still fully clothed, undoes the zipper on his dress trousers, fondles himself for a moment, then lets himself bob free, large, pink and excited. Sam no longer makes any pretense of trying control his heartbeat or his breathing. The stubby fingers now nudging into him, compelling him to widen, reaching for his prostate, working against the tension in Sam’s body, nudging against the refusal of Sam’s hole to soften for him, sending Sam disjointed jolts of pleasure over which he has no more control than anything else in this room. Lucifer’s face curls in a display of disgust. Sam feels as disgusted at his own capitulation, his own inability to even say no, because he knows he can’t fight, not if Lucifer’s here, not if Crowley isn’t on his side he can’t fight.

Sam watches Crowley and only Crowley, feels the force of Crowley opening him, harder now, against his body’s choosing; the scalding pain – twisting his breath sharp and fast – that means a tear, but Sam forces himself to not pull back, it’s not unusual for Crowley to make him hurt – so many ways, so many fucking ways – but even minor injuries, that doesn’t happen. Sam doesn’t know if it’s a mistake, if Crowley is that distracted – and that leaves an empty place in his chest that it shouldn’t – or if this isn’t Crowley at all; with Lucifer this would just be the start, this wouldn’t even count. Sam still watches Crowley, his body helpless to stop feeling where he is being occupied; Crowley scooping out small pieces of stool, shaking them off his fingers in disgust, and wiping his fingers on a small neat handkerchief, cleaning them with a quick dab of anti-bacterial gel from a little bottle stashed inside his coat. He say’s nothing to Sam and Sam’s whole body burns with embarrassment. Crowley pulls the space in Sam’s body further open, uses the two hands to play with Sam’s anus, uses his thumbs to pull Sam open like hard green fruit; Sam thinks about Crowley, thinks about how familiar the feel of Crowley hands, how comforting the warmth and weight where Crowley’s meat-suit is touching him would usually be; in the moment though, Sam just feels insubstantial and opaque, slightly present, barley visible, and he tries to keep his focus here, and remember he has to do this for Dean and his Mom and Cas and how he needs to save them, it’s his job to save them; to do that he has to get out of here. Sam tries not to feel the cold so close by as he tries not to feel that Crowley is violating him.

Sam want to speak, to be sure he can, to say something, anything to Crowley, to be sure he can choose, but his throat is dust dry, locking his voice in his chest, tying his tongue to the roof of his mouth; but he wouldn’t dare if he could, because if Lucifer is in control the longer Sam takes before he upsets the apple cart the longer his window for escape. If this is truly Lucifer, and there is no reason it shouldn’t be, Sam will have forever to work on how to escape.

“Moose.” Crowley calls him back to the here and now, pushing himself back in against Sam’s fraying rim. Sam doesn’t yelp, he swallows it back, silent as always for Crowley. But he wants Crowley to take his name back, he really didn’t want to share that with Lucifer, and it shouldn’t matter so much, Sam knows that, but it does.

Crowley’s voice has called Lucifer to attention also; and Sam doesn’t want to be watched. Sam’s moments of submission have always been intimate—this was private. 

Now Lucifer is watching; Lucifer who left him without secrets; Lucifer who tore him open who fucked him apart, who stole every piece of knowledge Sam had about himself—he doesn’t want to give Lucifer any piece of this Sam, of this hard-won self since hell, he doesn’t want to Lucifer to know how mangled he still is; or how much he loves, Lucifer held love against him before and now he loves so much more: still Dean, always Dean, his Mom, and Cas, because you can love a friend more than you can expect others to understand, and he cares about Crowley, which he shouldn’t and right now Lucifer is finding out that he does. Another piece of knowledge about Sam that Lucifer takes from him. Has taken from him.

Sam’s mind struggles to be present, to manage the terror of his body. He tells himself the feel of Crowley is right, the last scent of bought humanity hangs on him; Lucifer had none of that, he reminds himself: Lucifer had pure grace, and pure love, and pure desire and pure anger, hate, Sam corrects himself: hate. 

Lucifer hates him and Crowley doesn’t love him.

Sam knows Crowley is there, Crowley has him by the hips, Crowley is fucking him while he lays there trembling and taught, forced acquiescence—not knowing whether he is submitting my choice of by trickery. Then Crowley is too close, face up against Sam, the air is too close and he can feel the scratch of stubble – and Sam knows, Crowley doesn’t come this close, this is what Lucifer does.

Sam’s mind wants to take him home, to Dean to Mom to Cas to everyday monsters and men and the people who keep him safe; but the only way out – if there is, says a desperate part of him – is here, and he brings his focus back hard and tensed feeling Crowley, please let it be Crowley, deep in him – his face up against Sam’s, his lips too close to Sam’s. Sam knows that Crowley doesn’t kiss him, they never do, they never have, and Sam had wanted it, wanted Crowley’s face against his, wanted to feel the warmth of that mouth sliding on his, the rub of that day-old stubble against his face. But not now. Lucifer, Sam knows, Lucifer took every part of him and everything inside Sam remembers. 

Sam gasps. Nearly a word, he’s nearly spoken. He’s miss-stepped today with no reprimand and no release, he wonders if the rules still apply. He wonders if he still has a deal with his devil. He wonders if this body that is fucking him is the devil he thought he knew.

Crowley is crowing into Sam’s space, a space that isn’t his. “Let Lucifer fuck you Sam. Let him take you Sam. Do it for me Sam. Let him see what you will do for me. Say ‘yes’ Sam. You said yes to save the world Sam, this time says yes for me.” Crowley pauses expectantly and Sam isn’t sure he knows this man, demon, his face is still against Sam’s though and Sam wants to pull away, turn his face away, Sam wants this to be not happening—this whole damn thing shouldn’t be happening. “Let him see how you submit for me, that you choose it…” 

Crowley is asking for ‘yes’ for Sam’s yes, Lucifer’s ‘yes’.

That’s enough, he can’t, he can’t—all he wants to safe and family and home.

He always dreamed he said ‘No’ to Lucifer, and the world was saved just anyhow, it just ended better somehow, and no one had to suffer, and monsters weren’t real; and he’s dreamed he said ‘No’ and the world ended; and he’s dreamed he said ‘No’ and Dean said ‘yes’ and their world ended. But he can’t say yes again. 

He feels Crowley crowding deeper into his bowels, feels Crowley running a thumb over his lips, hand supporting the back of his neck, playing with the fine hairs at the nape, thumb rubbing on his lips asking them to part, asking for an answer, for entrance, for admission, submission. Sam pinches his mouth shut.

They both want to see him broken to the bone, they both want to see him either submit to Lucifer or unable to submit to Crowley, too weak to say yes too afraid to say no. He’s to break the rule of silence, the last relic of what their deal had been. Crowley is jerking in and out of him, hands gripped fast on Sam’s shoulders, forehead resting on Sam’s chest, borrowing Sam’s strength to hold them in place, to create force for his thrusts. Lucifer is watching tilting his head side to side, mouthing ‘yes’, mouthing ‘say it again, Sam’. If he says no he breaks, if he says yes he’s broken. 

He can smell sulphur, and grace, and blood, and sex. 

Sam picks break, he chooses humiliation, he decides on fear, he gives up, and chooses what everyone knew he always would: he chooses Dean, he chooses his mother, he chooses Cas, family and home and heart. He chooses weakness like he always knew he would. Sam pulls away, he jerks back, the dust and old and mold and deadness of hell, the stuffy air, the too sweet smell of angles, it overwhelms him.

Fear and family and he must go home.

The air is shifting around him, and there is the fresh smell of water in it, there is so much moonlight that there is shade from the cottonwoods, there is the thick leafy smell of the earth and dense smell of trees at night. He spits twice, tries to spit out the smell of hell, he chokes up some vomit, resting on his hands and knees as the retches, he coughs, he wipes his mouth; he knows where he is, he knows where his duffel is with jeans, and sneakers, and his hoodie, and his phone, and he can call Dean, he has to call Dean, call his Mom, find Cas, because he needs to tell them about Lucifer. Some things about Lucifer. 

Sam, needs to get moving, needs to call Dean, find a story to tell Dean about how he knows this. Dean never needs to know what happened tonight or his Mom, god forbid his Mom, and he doesn’t know if he can hide it from Cas. Sam takes a moment to gather up his tears, and then his courage and get on with the phone call, a phone call can’t be that hard. 

What he can’t shake though, as he felt the first soft prickle of old leaves under his skin, as the air opened up, as the sky became the gentle dark greys of first dawn, as he knew he was set free, he heard, he thought he heard, from far far away, lost in the echoes of the clogged halls of hell: “He’ll come back, he’ll always come back to me.” And it was so far away, and so indistinct that Sam didn’t know which voice had spoken anyhow.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading, I know it gets shaky at the end, I got shaky at the end. I really do mean my trigger warnings, don't I? Comments are always appreciated.


End file.
